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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24148027">Half-Grown Bones</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee'>peevee</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Reversal [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Depends on your definition of happy, Frottage, Ghost Eddie Kaspbrak, M/M, Sort Of, The Turtle CAN Help Us (IT), Voyeurism, but kinda, not exactly a fix-it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:01:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,439</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24148027</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a voice, too. At first just a quiet murmuration with no way to pick out the words; later, fragments of sound that could be something, always just out of reach. There’s a familiarity to it that Richie avoids thinking too hard about. He doesn’t want to confront the thought that he knows who it is. He knows the way it moves, the shape of it. The dulcet fucking tones of Eddie Kaspbrack, dead man.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier/Original Male Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Reversal [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745266</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>98</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Half-Grown Bones</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I haven't written much in the last 4 years, but [REDACTED] has really left me with too much time on my hands, so! Here we are.</p><p>The working title for this fic was 'Ed's Dead, Baby. Ed's Dead'  and I really just want someone to appreciate my stupid pop-culture reference</p><p>Made better by ghoulkitten, who remains the best &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Dude,” says Eddie, “I feel bad about kicking you while you’re down, man, but this is pathetic.”</p><p>Richie’s still on the floor, shoulders against the edge of the bed. He lets his head fall back and sniffs loudly at the ceiling. “Fuck you, man. You’re dead, you don’t get to fucking drag me when you’re dead.”</p><p>Eddie sits down on the mattress and leans back on his hands. There’s no dip where he sits, no movement where his fingers shift against the bedspread. Because he’s fucking dead. Richie closes his eyes and swallows, the taste of come lingering. His lips are still buzzing with a familiar numbness, which creeps to the rest of his body deliciously for a few minutes before fizzling out and leaving him just… worn out and anxious, the edges of a headache creeping in. As always, the little voice in his head is starting to pipe up, <i>this is it, he’s the one that’ll go to the press, all for ten fucking minutes of happy brain chemicals, you stupid fuck</i>. He doesn’t look at Eddie. Can’t, because there’s nothing to fucking look at, because Eddie’s dead. </p><p>Eddie sighs. “C’mon jerkwad. Get your stupid ass up and brush your teeth at least. I can’t believe you invite them to your fucking <i>house</i>, man. Gross.”</p><p>Richie does get up and brush his teeth. If he’s gonna hallucinate, he might as well get something out of it that isn’t intense self-loathing. </p><p>-</p><p>The first few times, Richie thinks he might be imagining things. It’s just a glimpse, here and there. A shadowy thing he sees for a brief moment when he’s pouring himself a glass of water in the liminal dark of the early morning. He isn’t really sleeping; none of them are, flurries of activity on the group chat at 4am in every time zone. It could be exhaustion, or nightmares that follow him out of sleep. </p><p>There’s a voice, too. At first just a quiet murmuration with no way to pick out the words; later, fragments of sound that could be something, always just out of reach. There’s a familiarity to it that Richie avoids thinking too hard about. He doesn’t want to confront the thought that he knows who it is. He knows the way it moves, the shape of it. The dulcet fucking tones of Eddie Kaspbrack, dead man.</p><p>He doesn’t tell the others, at first. It seems insubstantial, somehow. Personal, like he’d be giving something of himself away if he admitted that he was seeing Eddie, dreaming about Eddie, hearing him more and more clearly every day. </p><p>-</p><p>The first time Eddie fully appears in his house, Richie nearly has a fucking heart attack right there, gasping on the floor of his kitchen as Eddie stands over him, “Rich. Richie, it’s me, I’m not the fucking clown, yeah? Jesus, are you breathing? Breathe, you little shit, come on.”</p><p>“You can’t call me a ‘little shit’, squirt,” Richie gasps, scrambling back against the wall. Inhale. Exhale. Close your eyes, he’s not there, he’s not there. He draws his knees up and brings his arms up to make a dark space to breathe into.</p><p>“I believe in you,” says Eddie. “The body may be large and ungainly but the spirit is both willing and able.”</p><p>Richie snorts unwillingly into the cradle of his arms, and when the rapid, rabbit-beat of his heart begins to slow, he dares another glance up. </p><p>Eddie’s smiling crookedly, leaning against Richie’s little-used marble countertop, arms crossed. He’s wearing the clothes he’d died in, Richie realises. Yellow t-shirt, dark coloured hoodie and slacks. This outfit kills monsters! The t-shirt’s clean, no shit or blood or shitty, bloody greywater, which is just another reason that Eddie isn’t real. </p><p>He looks solid, though. Richie had half-expected this, in some fucked-up little corner of his mind. Had wanted it. The Eddie-shape that’s been haunting his waking dreams has appeared with more and more regularity, has stopped dissolving into nothing when he looks at it directly. He’s started talking to the familiar voice that follows him around like a total psycho. No fucking wonder his shit-for-brain has hooked onto that and run wild with it. </p><p>He closes his eyes, presses the tips of his fingers into them and blows out a slow breath, and when he opens them again Eddie’s gone, only the pool of water and smashed glass to indicate anything has happened at all. </p><p>-</p><p>He calls Bev, maybe because she’s the most likely to give it to him straight (<i>ha</i>) that he’s finally gone psycho. She picks up straight away even though it’s close to 3am.</p><p>“This is gonna sound fucked, Bev,” he says before she can get a word in, “but uh… have you been seeing anything? Anything weird.”</p><p>“Clown weird?”</p><p>Richie considers this.</p><p>“No,” he says, slowly, “I mean, I don’t think so? More like,” he pauses, swallows. Fuck. Bev’s seen him at -- well, not his worst, but close to it, but it’s still hard to get the words out. “It’s… someone,” he manages. “I keep seeing a person. Hearing them. I don’t think it’s real, but I needed to ask you, if, after you were in the Deadlights…”</p><p>She’s quiet for a few long moments; he can hear her soft breaths on the other end of the line. </p><p>“It’s difficult for me to remember,” she says. “I had dreams. Sometimes I didn’t know they were dreams until I woke up. Sometimes they felt more like memories, and I couldn’t remember what was real and what wasn’t. I didn’t ever… see anyone, though. While I was awake.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“Rich,” she says gently, “can I ask? Is it--?”</p><p>“Of course it’s fucking him,” Richie says, “Shit. Shit. Am I… is this what going insane feels like?” Am I gonna end up smearing my own shit on the walls of a psych ward? I thought we were done with this bullshit!”</p><p>Richie hears murmuring in the background, then the sound of Bev muffling the mic to talk to someone. Ben. </p><p>“Rich, do you want to come and stay with us for a while? We can talk about this. See if we can find anything in the books Mike kept, or--”</p><p>Richie sniffs loudly. She sounds like a real live grownup, at odds with the face he can’t help picturing on the other end of the line: button nose and freckles, her shaggy mop of hair. He remembers thinking about being a kid. About it leaking out of you, deflating you so slowly you didn’t even notice until it was too late.</p><p>Ben says something, soft and inaudible.</p><p>“This might sound stupid,” says Bev after a moment, “but I don’t think you should be scared, Rich.”</p><p>“I’m not,” he says, realising only when he hears the words aloud that they’re true. “I’m not, It’s dead. We killed that little bitch. Pulled Its creepy fucking heart right out.”</p><p>Bev laughs, warm and familiar, and Richie clutches the phone closer to his ear.  “Yeah,” she says, “Yeah we did.”</p><p>“I… Okay. I’ll let you. Sorry for fucking… interrupting your marathon bone-session, or whatever.”</p><p>“Fuck off,” Bev laughs. “We love you, Richie. Come and visit.”</p><p>“Yeah fucking yeah, I love you too,” he says, meaning it. “Go away before you make me puke with all this.”</p><p>He hangs up, pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes and breathes slow and deep until he’s startled by his phone buzzing against his thigh.</p><p>Bev: <i>call me in the morning, babe. don’t think you’re the only one fucked up over this</i>.</p><p>-</p><p>“Like, obviously he wasn’t real. But fuck, he looked so real, y’know? Like he was standing right there. Apart from his face: no extra holes.”</p><p>“I mean, shall I say what we’re both thinking? Ghosts?”</p><p>Richie puffs his cheeks and blows the air out into the receiver. “Is it weird that I still don’t believe in ghosts? After all the fucked up shit we’ve seen. The clown was an alien, right? A real life, shapeshifting motherfucking alien. Or an alien god. Do you remember that ritual that we did, when we were kids? That was some fucked up shit. I dunno. One conspiracy theorist’s wet dream is enough for me, I think.”</p><p>“I was thinking about echoes,” Bev says, sounding thoughtful, “being in the Deadlights, I don’t know. It’s like we were outside of time, seeing everything. Possibilities, or whatever.”</p><p>“Yeah,” says Richie. Every time he thinks about it, his mind sort of… glances away from the memory. “Okay. So like, mirror universes or whatever? Star Trek lied to me about how cool this would be, Beverly.”</p><p>“More like memories, I suppose. But memories from another time or place. That’s how I thought of them.”</p><p>“From another… what? Timeline? That’s some philosophical shit, man, I dunno.”</p><p>“I think,” said Bev. He hears her throat click as she swallows. “I think it gets tangled sometimes. The echo and the real memories. I saw you all die so many times, it started to feel real to me, then I forgot.”</p><p>“This is so fucked, why are we so fucked, Bevvie?”</p><p>“I don’t even know how to begin to answer that, Rich,” says Bev. “Maybe it was the years of psychological torture, maybe the actual torture, maybe being forced to forget our childhoods by an interdimensional clown alien-?”</p><p>“Maybe it’s Maybelline?”</p><p>“Like, if we <i>weren’t</i> fucked up it would be weirder, right?” she says, ignoring him.</p><p>“There isn’t a shrink alive with room for all my bullshit.”</p><p>“Yeah.” </p><p>-</p><p>The first time Eddie shows up while there’s someone else there, Richie almost bites a guy’s dick off. </p><p>He’s got a heavy hand on the back of his head, mouth stuffed deliciously full. His knees and his back are aching because he’s fucking forty years old, but it’s worth it for the eager little noises this guy is making, the soft murmurs of encouragement, <i>yeah, baby, that’s it</i>, the fingers tugging gently on his hair. Fuck, yeah. </p><p>“What the fuck, Richie!”</p><p>Richie chokes, jaw clenching dangerously, eyes flying open and zeroing in on Eddie. Eddie, who is suddenly standing in the corner of his living room, his mouth hanging open, eyes like saucers. A familiar feeling of raw panic floods Richie’s body, his body lighting up with adrenaline.</p><p>“Okay, baby?” the guy says. Richie pulls back, coughing a bit, cock slipping out of his mouth. He swallows thickly, looking at Eddie, then back at the guy, who glances over to where Eddie is standing, confused. </p><p>Right. Eddie’s not real. There’s nobody standing in the corner of his room and he’s being a fucking weirdo who can’t stop being insane for the five whole minutes it takes to suck a dick. </p><p>“Uh, yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Just need a sec.” He widens his eyes at Eddie. <i>Get the fuck out!</i></p><p>“Who the fuck is this guy?” demands Eddie. “What--”</p><p>He trails off as the guy rubs his dick over Richie’s lower lip. </p><p>“C’mon, open up.”</p><p>Richie only hesitates for a second before opening his mouth and letting the guy push back in, relaxing his jaw. <i>Your funeral</i> he tries to convey to Eddie with his eyebrows.</p><p>The guy comes fast after that, pushing Richie’s hair back off his face and fucking his mouth a little bit. Richie tries not to moan too obviously through it, his heightened awareness of Eddie (not real, he’s not real!) sitting awkwardly in the armchair by the window making his entire body feel like one exposed nerve. The guy offers to jerk him off, after, but Richie waves him away, shoves him out of the door, then flops back onto the couch, grabbing his phone to shoot off a quick message:</p><p><i> thnx for the dick xoxo</i> </p><p>“Dude.”</p><p>“Fucking say it, c’mon.” He lifts his arm off his face and squints at Eddie; he’s tomato red and staring down at his own knees.</p><p>“You let him,” Eddie finally says, “<i>without</i> a condom? What the fuck, man?”</p><p>Richie starts to laugh. </p><p>“Don’t laugh, fuckface! There are so many STIs that can be orally transmitted!”</p><p>“Are you serious? That’s what you’re hung up on?”</p><p>“Did you even know that guy’s name, Richie? Jesus.”</p><p>“Nope.” </p><p>There’s a moment of silence. Richie squints his eyes open, catches Eddie glancing away, presumably trying to avoid making eye-contact with his dick, which is still pressing uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans. </p><p>“So, uh--”</p><p>“Can’t a guy get a little privacy around here?” says Richie, making the universally known gesture for jerking off.</p><p>“Jesus, asshole, I’m going,” says Eddie, scrambling up towards the door to the hallway, then not stepping through it. </p><p>He glances back at where Richie’s hand is at the button of his jeans. The situation in there is getting kinda desperate. </p><p>“You want a show, baby?” Richie leers at him. </p><p>“Fuck <i>off</i>. I uh… don’t think I can leave?” He takes a couple paces back, retraces his steps and then just stops, a few inches in front of the doorjamb.</p><p>Richie’s hand flops back onto the couch from where it had been hovering hopefully. “<i>Ugh</i>.”</p><p>“You can, uh. I can turn away, or something.”</p><p>“Richie glares at him. “Yeah, no thanks. Buh-bye, serotonin rush; I hardly knew ye.”</p><p>“Do you seriously--?”</p><p>“Eddie. Light of my life. Weird little brain ghost. There is literally nothing I want less in this world than to talk about this right now.”</p><p>“Right, sorry. Sorry,” says Eddie distractedly. He sits back in the chair, twists his fingers together. </p><p>“I’m dead, right?” he says. “I mean, I know I’m dead. That’s why I’m,” he makes a confusing handwave-y gesture. “I don’t know why I’m not more freaked out about this.”</p><p>“Not much to freak out about when you’re dead, I guess.” Or when you’re the grief-induced hallucination of a pathetic fucking loser. Richie leans forward, squirming a bit until his dick is trapped only slightly less awkwardly, then sighs. “Sorry. I’m...sorry, man. I’m glad you’re here, though.”</p><p>“Oh yeah? You miss me?”</p><p>Richie looks over at him, cracks a real smile for the first time in weeks. “Yeah, I miss you buddy... I also miss being able to jerk it freely in the comfort of my own home, so--”</p><p>“And there it is. That’s a relief, for a second I thought you might be being sincere.”</p><p>“Moi?” says Richie, one hand over his heart like a scandalised dowager.</p><p>Eddie sits back in the chair, scratches under his jaw.</p><p>“So when you said Ben was hot, you meant like, <i>hot</i>, like--”</p><p>“Jesus, don’t!”</p><p>“I’m just saying, man. You could’ve said. I don’t know.”</p><p>“I could not have <i>said</i>. There is no universe in which I could have <i>said</i>, what the hell.”</p><p>“You could have! Shit, Rich, you could have.”</p><p>Richie looks at him; that serious face he had, when they were kids and he was trying to tell Richie something important. As always, Richie can’t help himself.</p><p>“I’m sorry for cheating on your mom, Eds. Our love was pure, but her dick couldn’t satisfy me.”</p><p>“I can’t believe I died for this shit.”</p><p>-</p><p>So, Eddie turns up. And turns up, and turns up. It’s not always when Richie is sucking a dick, but like, it’s more often than probability should really allow for. It really puts a cramp in his style when he’s trying to ignore Eddie gesticulating wildly from his usual spot on the couch and deep throat at the same time. </p><p>“Is this, like, an addiction thing? Are you addicted to dick? Do you have a therapist for your dick addiction? A-<i>dick</i>-tion. Ha.”</p><p>“Fuck you, Patrick Swayze,” says Richie, trying to will his hard-on into submission and stamp down the cold wave of mortification that’s trying to sweep through his body. Again. Fuck his stupid, shitty subconcious, which clearly hates him and wants him to die of blue balls. “You’re the one who always just <i>happens</i> to appear right when I’m about to get my dick wet. You’re like the world’s most punctual little cockblock.” He thinks maybe that actually says something about him, but he doesn’t examine the thought too hard.</p><p>Amazingly, Eddie goes bright pink, a fascinating, splotchy tinge that goes all the way to his ears. </p><p>“I’m not… I don’t have any control over it,” he says. “I’m here, or I’m not here. There’s not much else.” He jabs his finger at Richie. “Anyway, I’m your ‘brain ghost’ or whatever, right? You’re bascially cockblocking yourself.”</p><p>“Ugh,” says Richie, “I mean, that does sound like the sort of shitty thing I would do. Fuck you, me. Fuck me, you!”</p><p>“And you don’t have to like… kick them out all the time,” says Eddie, looking like he wishes he hadn’t said anything as soon as the words are out of his mouth. “If I’m not really here. Or, uh...”</p><p>“You want a free show, eh? Can’t blame ya, this hot specimen right here is in <i>demand</i> baby!”</p><p>“Mm, yeah; poorly shaved gibbon, that’s my kink.”</p><p>A loud cackle spills out of Richie’s mouth without his permission; it’s been so long since he’s heard himself laugh it sounds almost shocking. Eddie’s face scrunches up (<i>Cute</i>! He’s still so cute) and then they’re both giggling like teenagers, that sort of contagious laughter that keeps going too long after the initial joke, that descends into stupid gasping breaths and wheezing every time you make eye contact.</p><p>If anyone saw him right now, they’d think he was fucking certifiable; alone and wheezing with laughter, half-chub still pushing hopefully at his fly. </p><p>-</p><p>Richie goes to Bev and Ben’s place. His career’s not going to get any <i>more</i> fucked by taking a week-long vacation; axe-murdering a guy really takes the shine off the ‘relatable bro’ persona, apparently. Everyone’s very keen for him to ‘wait it out’, whatever the fuck that means. Although if the world can forget about Polanski, maybe they’re right. </p><p>“It’s very. Architectural?” </p><p>“Thanks, Rich,” says Ben, seeming genuinely pleased. </p><p>Bev wrinkles her nose at him, once Ben has taken the car into town to fetch groceries. “All the glass,” she says, “I don’t know. It’s so exposed, I’m always looking for something moving outside at night.”</p><p>Richie flops back onto their gigantic couch, gazes out into the dark expanse of forest that edges the soft green lawn. It looks like the setting for every ‘Rich Attractive Couple Gets Murdered’ movie he’s ever seen. </p><p>“Shit,” he shivers. “Yeah, that’s creepy as fuck.”</p><p>“Right?! Ben finds it relaxing.”</p><p>“Ben’s a freak.”</p><p>“Yeah,” she says, expression softening. </p><p>“Ew, gross. Love.” Richie mimes gagging over the back of the couch. Bev throws a cushion at him. </p><p>Rich,” she says, later, when they’re languid, stuffed full of artisanal cheese and organic wines, and watching some movie none of them are paying attention to. She’s leaning back into the cradle of Ben’s chest, her bare legs on Richie’s lap. He strokes them curiously, a little stubbly against the grain. He knows what she’s going to ask. </p><p>“Are you still… you know. Seeing it? Him?”</p><p>“Yeah. A few times.” He doesn’t mention the dick-sucking.</p><p>“Have you called Mike?”</p><p>“Is it weird that I kind of don’t want to? It’s not… I don’t want Mike to feel like I’m using him, or whatever. For fucking information, you know? He’s on vacation for the first time in his sad little country-bumpkin life, I don’t wanna fuck with that, man.” </p><p>Bev wiggles her feet in his lap, and Richie slumps a bit closer to both of them. Ben’s arm is stretched over the back of the couch, and he gives Richie a soft scratch on the back of his head. </p><p>“He won’t,” says Ben, “he wouldn’t think that, Richie. He would want to help, if he could.”</p><p>“What if I have to make it stop. Make him stop,” Richie says, almost a whisper. “I don’t… fuck.” </p><p>Ben squeezes the back of his neck. </p><p>“I don’t know,” says Bev. “I don’t know, honey. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“I miss him so much.” He closes his eyes and tips his head back. “So fucking stupid, I hardly knew him, right?”</p><p>“That’s not true, Richie. We forgot. We all forgot. But we knew each other better than anyone.”</p><p>-</p><p>Trashmouth: <i>sup bitches. anyone else seeing dead guys in their house or is it just me???</i></p><p>Trashmouth: <i>pretty sure it’s not gonna turn out to be that alien fuckface we all know and hate but idk</i></p><p>Trashmouth: <i>just thought i’d check in with the gang and see if it’s a good old fashioned shared psychosis or if i’m the lucky winner in the headcase stakes</i></p><p>BB: <i>??????</i></p><p>BB: <i>What the fuck, Rich?</i></p><p>BB: <i>Which dead guys? Are we talking zombies?</i></p><p>Trashmouth: <i>no its eddie</i></p><p>Trashmouth: <i>or i guess something that looks like eddie</i></p><p>Trashmouth: <i>or a fucking ghost</i></p><p>Trashmouth: <i>all very normal and fine and not freaking me out at all</i></p><p>BB: <i>Shit. Do you need us to come out there?</i></p><p>BB: <i>We killed It this time, right?</i></p><p>Bev: <i>It’s dead.</i></p><p>Bev: <i>We know it is, Bill. We all felt it.</i></p><p>Trashmouth: <i>i believe the lady</i></p><p>Trashmouth: <i>because the alternative is literally shitting myself</i></p><p>Transhmouth: <i>plus i wanna feel that demi moore fantasy without it getting super fucked up</i></p><p>BB: <i>Hang on Rich</i></p><p>BB: <i> I just remembered that Mike left some shit here. There might be some books? Gimme a sec</i></p><p>Richie stares at his phone as if intense eye contact is going to make Bill come back any faster. After half an hour of pretending to check Reddit and reloading Whatsapp obsessively he shoves it into his hoodie pocket and goes to pour himself a glass of Scotch, trying to still the shaking of his hands so he doesn’t slop it out of the glass. </p><p>It’s relief, he realises; the feeling that’s making his arms like jello, his breath catch at the back of his throat like it doesn’t know whether to come out as a laugh or a sob. The simple fucking relief of having <i>friends</i> who care about him, and how fucking pathetic is that? He sniffs a bit, wipes his nose on his sleeve. Takes a too-big gulp of Scotch and coughs when it hits the back of his throat. It smells like wet earth; a comforting smell. Smoke and seaweed and peat.</p><p> <i>Do you need us to come out there?</i></p><p>He takes out his phone and replies to Bill’s message with the yellow heart emoji.</p><p>“You do know it’s not even midday yet, right?”</p><p><i>Eddie</i>. A warmth suffuses Richie’s body that’s nothing to do with the scotch or the sun beginning to stream in through the slats as it creeps around the building. Nothing, <i>nothing</i> to do with that fucking clown felt like this. He raises his glass at Eddie and takes another deep swig. </p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p>And fuck. That sweet sincerity almost makes Richie let out another embarrassing snivel into his glass. Eddie sits down next to him and eyes the scotch with something that looks a bit like longing. </p><p>“I told them about you. The Losers.”</p><p>“Oh yeah? Did you tell them I said hi?”</p><p>“The fuck? No, dude. I still don’t even know if… I mean, no offence, but you’re probably not real, man.”</p><p>“Yeah, well. I feel real. So isn’t there some dead philosopher guy who says that makes me real?”</p><p>“Do I look like I went to school for fucking Philosophy, Spaghetti? I don’t know.” He scratches the corner of his eye under his glasses. “You feel real to me too.”</p><p>His phone vibrates in his pocket. </p><p>MikeH: <i>Hey Rich no ive not seen anything either. Its definitely dead though Bevs right. Just a feeling I guess but Ive learned to trust them when it comes to Pennywise. Derrys changing too now Its not there.</i></p><p>MikeH: <i>That doesnt mean the Eddie youre seeing isnt related to what happened especially since you were in the deadlights.</i></p><p>MikeH: <i>Some of the books at Bills might help. Sorry I’m not around Ill be checking on here though keep me updated please. I can fly out if you need me to.</i></p><p>MikeH: <i>@BB should be the box thats labelled Library Stuff I think we put it in the garage.</i></p><p>Then he sends a blurry selfie through. It’s a bad angle and he’s squinting directly into the camera; in the background is a generic-looking white sand beach in front of some blocky holiday apartments. </p><p>BB: <i>Thanks Mike! I’ll check the garage; thought it might be in with the attic stuff. Rich, I’ll let you know what I find!”</i></p><p>“He really went to fuckin’ Florida,” says Eddie, peering over Richie’s shoulder. “He looks happy.”</p><p>Trashmouth: <i>bill did you really just use a semicolon in a whatsapp</i></p><p>Trashmouth: <i>i just had to google it was called a semicolon you literate fuck</i></p><p>“Liar,” says Eddie. “Why do you do that?”</p><p>Richie puts his phone away, after adding a quick <i>thanks mikey xxxx</i></p><p>“Do what?”</p><p>“Act stupid. You’re not stupid, Richie. You’ve always been so smart.”</p><p>“Aw, jeeze, mister.” The Voice just comes out of him automatically.</p><p>“You can’t stop, can you? Take a compliment, I fucking dare you.”</p><p>“Eddie,” says Richie helplessly. </p><p>“You’re smart. You’re so smart, and you’re so brave.”</p><p>Out of nowhere, all Richie can picture is Eddie’s shocked-open mouth, the sluggish trickle of blood that had spilled out of one of his nostrils. <i>Oh</i> Richie had thought at the time, <i>he’s having a nosebleed</i>. Then Eddie had opened his mouth and his teeth had been stained red.</p><p>“I’m… literally so fucking stupid, Eds.”</p><p>Eddie looks like he would love to be smacking Richie around the head right now if he was more corporeal. </p><p>“No,” he says instead, then, “no,” far more gently. “You’re not. You’re not, Richie. You were so scared.”</p><p>“Fuck,” says Richie, “don’t do this.” He’s not sure if he’s talking to Eddie or himself. </p><p>“You were so scared of It, and--”</p><p>“You didn’t want to go! You didn’t want to go, and I made you, I fucking forced you, and now you’re dead, you stupid fuck. I can’t fucking… <i>live</i> without you,” he spits. “I’m a coward who couldn’t even say it when you were alive.”</p><p>“Richie,” says Eddie, still so goddamn gently. “You’ve never made me do anything I didn’t want to do. We went in together, man. Don’t forget that.” His hand rests near Richie’s, as if he’d like to take it. “All of us did.”</p><p>Richie slumps, all the fight gone out of him. The words he just said (unsaid) hover in the air between them. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Eddie says. And whether it’s for dying or in response to Richie’s non-confession, Richie doesn’t find out, because when he looks up Eddie is gone.</p><p>-</p><p>BB: <i>Sorry Rich, I’ve not really found much in the books. As far as I can see there’s nothing about ghosts or any sort of apparition. I can mail you them if you think they might be helpful?</i></p><p>-</p><p>“Are they hurting you?”</p><p>Richie can’t exactly respond to that without looking completely insane in front of Pete, who is working Richie’s pants off his hips with an impatience that’s kind of flattering. He waits until Pete is scraping his stubble against Richie’s bare thigh before mouthing <i>No! Fuck off</i>! at Eddie. Eddie does not fuck off. Eddie marches over to squint suspiciously at the handcuffs that are holding Richie’s arms tight to the headboard.</p><p>“They look too tight, Rich. They’re not even padded; this guy looks like a fucking amateur. Can you feel your fingers? Wiggle them if you can.”</p><p>Richie wiggles them incredulously.</p><p>“Hm,” says Eddie, still skeptical.</p><p>Then he fucking… sits in the chair in the corner of Richie’s room and crosses his ankles primly. Like he’s watching a fucking movie. </p><p>What the fuck. What the fucking fuck. Pete’s spreading his thighs and getting wet-sticky fingers up inside him and Richie’s still stuck on Eddie <i>watching</i> this. Then Eddie leans forwards, elbow on his knees, intent, and Richie full-body shivers, his arms jerking in their restraints. </p><p>“Fuck,” he says aloud, “are you--?”</p><p>“Yeah,” says Pete. His mouth twists cruelly as he plays with Richie; it’s one of the reasons Richie’s hit him up for this more than once. It’s not just that he keeps his mouth shut, it’s that little vicious streak that lights Richie up.</p><p>“Yeah,” Eddie echoes roughly. </p><p>“Jesus,” Richie gasps. He feels like he’s on fire; Eddie’s eyes are crawling all over him and Pete’s not being gentle. He’s never gentle, but it’s like he’s caught up in whatever crackling tension Eddie is giving off, shoving Richie’s legs wider, his fingers in deeper. </p><p>“This what you like, Rich?” says Eddie, voice dark and intent. “He seems like an asshole.”</p><p>Pete chooses that moment to push Richie’s thigh to one side and slap it; he’s strong enough that Richie’s attempts to jerk out of the way are fruitless and that just makes Richie gasp and sweat, knowing that Eddie can see him, can see what this does to him, and that there’s nothing he can fucking do about it.</p><p>“Nice,” says Pete, and slaps him again almost carelessly, a few times on each thigh until Richie is yelping, powerless to pretend that he doesn’t love this, that he isn’t dripping down onto his stomach. Eddie’s serious gaze makes him want to shrivel up with horny shame, makes his dick harder than hell.</p><p>By the time Pete’s shoving a pillow under his hips and a dick into his ass, Richie is so wired that he feels like he might vibrate out of his own skin. He hasn’t felt like this since he was a teenager, furtively jerking off to thoughts of Eddie’s smooth golden thighs, the press of knobbly knees against his in the clubhouse.</p><p>Pete leans forward until Richie’s nearly folded in half, then drives into him deep and fucking <i>brutal</i>, sliding a thumb over his lower lip and into his mouth. Richie sucks at him, drops his head sideways and sees… <i>fuck</i>. </p><p>Eddie’s still sitting rigidly in his seat, face carefully unmoved. He’s also very obviously hard in his neat slacks. The sight of him, all buttoned up and pink in the face flips a switch all over Richie’s body and he’s suddenly so close to coming that he can feel himself starting to clench rhythmically on Pete’s dick. </p><p>“Fuck,” he spits out, “Eddie.”</p><p>“Yeah,” he hears Eddie sigh out, and that’s all she wrote. He starts to come so hard that he yanks his arms where they’re still cuffed above him on the headboard, feels something pop ominously in his shoulder.</p><p>“God damn,” says Pete, pushing in so hard and deep it fucking hurts, “yeah, fuck.”</p><p>-</p><p>A little later, after Pete has unlocked him and brought him a glass of water, he sits down next to Richie on the bed to put his grotesquely expensive watch back on, buttons up his cuffs. </p><p>“Eddie, eh?”</p><p>“Ah,” says Richie, glancing over at Eddie. “Yeah, uh.”</p><p>“Mm. You’d have hurt my feelings if I didn’t know that <i>Eddie</i> has never fucked you as good as that.”</p><p>“No,” says Richie, feeling trapped. His throat clicks, and he takes another gulp of water. “He hasn’t.”</p><p>Pete gives him a wry little smirk, then pulls him up by the chin for a chaste kiss. </p><p>“This was fun. Hit me up if you’re in town again.”</p><p>Then he’s gone and Richie’s alone with only his thoughts and his friendly neighbourhood apparition for company. He rubs his wrists. Eddie, hawklike, is hovering over him immediately. </p><p>“He fucking broke the skin, Richie, look at that.”</p><p>“Uh, actually I think that was when I… y’know. Um. Pulled on them too hard. Popped my shoulder a bit too.”</p><p>He glances up; Eddie looks pink and flustered, hands hovering. </p><p>“You should be more careful,” he says finally. “Do you have neosporin, at least?”</p><p>Richie does. He staggers to the bathroom on wobbly legs, feeling detached and dreamlike, and stares at himself in the mirror. His hair is a disaster, flush still receding down his neck, and he looks tired. He drags some boxers and an old t-shirt out of the laundry basket and grabs the tube, then returns to sit heavily next to Eddie. The broken skin is hardly noticeable, but Eddie watches fixedly as he dabs some on. It’s pretty fucking hilarious, objectively, that Eddie won’t look him in the eye. </p><p>“I liked you watching me,” says Richie, just to see what he’ll do. He already feels flayed open, reckless after the last time Eddie was here, the things he said. It’s a little like Eddie has reached down inside him, has his fingers clasped stickily around his fucking heart, can see every gross, bloody part of him exposed. Eddie sucks in a quick breath. He’s still not looking at Richie, he’s staring at his own hands where he’s clenching and unclenching them against his thighs. </p><p>“I wish I could kiss you,” is what he says. He looks up, then, some naked emotion on his face. “I wish I hadn’t been such a fucking pussy before I… before I left.”</p><p>“You… what? What the fuck?”</p><p>“I wanted to kiss you so badly, that summer,” Eddie continues, ignoring Richie having a minor existential crisis on the bed next to him. “You got so tall, and you got those tiny little freckles on your nose. I can’t believe I forgot. That fucking gross rats nest of hair you had, I even liked that. I liked the way it all curled behind your ears.</p><p>I almost did it. I almost… shit, man. I don’t know. I was a <i>kid</i>. I didn’t know I’d just forget. How could I fucking forget you, Rich?”</p><p>Richie just gapes like a landed fish. Eddie leans back on his hands, looks down at his knees with a little smile hovering at his mouth.</p><p>“When I was younger I used to look at Bill and think… I dunno man, I wanted to be close to him all the time. I liked making him laugh, I’d look at him and think that he was the best person I ever knew. Stupid kid stuff. We were all like that, a bit, with Bill.”</p><p>“I… yeah,” says Richie. </p><p>“With you it was different. You were so fucking <i>annoying</i>, such a little fuckin’ shrimp.”</p><p>“<i>Hey</i>. Who’re you calling shrimp, shrimp?”</p><p>“I was just fucking… wound up all the time. By you. Wanted to fucking punch you half the time, kiss you the other half.”</p><p>“Jesus, Eddie.”</p><p>“C’mon Rich. I was kind of obvious--”</p><p>“You were fucking <i>not</i>, you were <i>not obvious</i> oh my god!” Richie half-yells, before pulling his t-shirt up to his face to do a little dramatic scream into it. </p><p>“Richie, why the fuck do you think I’m here, stuck with your sorry ass. You haven’t even asked about Myra--”</p><p>“Shit. Shit, I-”</p><p>“I don’t fucking <i>care</i>. I don’t care about her. I’m a terrible husband and I don’t care about her, but clearly I care about you enough to be fucking stuck with you even though I’m dead.”</p><p>“I thought--” says Richie brokenly, “the Deadlights, and the echos, and because I was there. I was holding you, you know, when you--” he waves his hands at Eddie.</p><p>“Got shish-kebabed? And what, some of my soul got attached to yours or something? Am I Voldemort in this scenario, numbnuts?”</p><p>Richie chokes out a horrible sounding laugh that’s more of a croak than anything else. Like someone stepped on a sad frog.</p><p>“No, I mean, you’re really here, aren’t you? I thought. I thought I was--” he looks up at Eddie. “I dunno if you heard, but I’m not exactly <i>coping</i>.” He makes some half-assed air quotes.</p><p>“What? You? You’ve always seemed so emotionally stable,” Eddie says dryly. </p><p>“Fuck off. I wanted to kiss you too. Obviously. Well, not obviously because I was a very deeply repressed and fucked up child, but--"</p><p>“We didn’t get given the chance,” Eddie says.</p><p>“Yeah. Yeah. I don’t know. Fuck that fucking clown.”</p><p>“Fuck that fucking clown,” Eddie agrees. </p><p>“Shit. Shit, I need to,” Richie fumbles for his phone, then stops, at a loss. He needs to tell Bev and Ben. Mike and Bill. Text them or something. What the hell is he supposed to say about this? <i>Great news, guys, I don’t think I’m as bugfuck insane as we all thought I was! Or! A lot more! Also: ghosts exist, maybe?</i></p><p>There’s a feeling a bit like elation that’s pouring through Richie. It’s Eddie, in the fucking… well, not in the flesh. But it’s him. Not some shadowy thought-projection, some fucked up fantasy. Eddie’s here. Eddie wants to kiss him. </p><p>
  <i>Eddie’s fucking dead.</i>
</p><p>“Rich,” says Eddie, “I think there’s something I’m supposed to tell you. I think that’s why I’m here.”</p><p>“Are you forgetting it? Like, Derry forgetting?”</p><p>“No, just… shit. It’s like, when a word is on the fucking tip of your tongue. I keep wanting to tell you something, then it’s just not there.”</p><p>“Is it more about how you’ve wanted to hop on my dick since high school? Because baby, I am <i>all</i> ears.”</p><p>“Dude.” Eddie’s ears have gone red again.</p><p>“You have!” says Richie, jabbing his finger triumphantly. “Ha.”</p><p>“I mean, yeah,” says Eddie. His tongue darts out nervously and his eyes flick down Richie’s body. <i>Shit</i>. “Apart from the twenty years where I had, like, clown-induced amnesia. But. Yeah.”</p><p>Richie’s entire fucking body flushes hot, still oversensitive from earlier. Then he remembers <i>earlier</i> all over again, and shit, shit.</p><p>“Uh.”</p><p>Something as tangible as static electricity jumps between them, and the intensity of Eddie’s gaze is making Richie feel like all the hairs on his body are standing on end.</p><p>“I think we need to go to Derry,” says Eddie, dousing Richie with an entire bucket of iced <i>what-the-fuck</i>. </p><p>“What the <i>fuck</i>.”</p><p>“That’s what I needed to tell you.” Eddie says. “We should go to Derry.”</p><p>-</p><p>Trashmouth: <i>so</i></p><p>Trashmouth: <i>i think i need to go to derry</i></p><p>Trashmouth: <i>please tell me this is a terrible idea because i think im gonna go</i></p><p>Mike: <i>Actually Derrys just a normal town now. Maybe it would give you a bit of closure Rich.</i></p><p>Trashmouth: <i>fuck</i></p><p>BB: <i>Do you need us to come? Are you sure you should be going out there alone?</i></p><p>BB: <i>If you give me a week I can free up some space.</i></p><p>Trashmouth: <i>no man, just some shit i think i need to work through</i></p><p>Trashmouth: <i>thanks though</i></p><p>Bev: <i>Be careful, Richie. Call us any time.</i></p><p>Trashmouth: <i>love you, fuckers</i></p><p>-</p><p>There’s an early flight out of LAX that leaves in six hours. Eddie’s gone, vanished between one breath and the next while Richie was struggling with his wallet and the booking page and maybe that’s good, maybe it’s better because he’s not sure he can think too hard about what he’s doing without screaming and running in the other direction. </p><p><i>Derry</i>. It still feels a little like something out of a dream. His memories are scattered, fragments of a childhood, some like a hazy summer dream, other parts that he doesn’t want to look at directly. Shoving Stan off a rock into the iron-tinged water at the Barrens. Smoking menthol cigarettes with Bev, the cool, ashy taste lingering at the back of his throat. The smell of thick blood, the stink of the sewers. Scraping black dirt out from under his fingernails. </p><p>He thought he’d never want to think about Derry again, but somehow it seems inevitable. He’ll go back. He’ll always end up going back. </p><p>He drinks three margaritas at 5am in the United Club, where the bartender clearly recognises him. He tips her a fifty when he hears the gate call, and she gives him a long look, then presses a plastic bottle of water into his hand without a word. By the time he reaches Bangor he’s mostly sober, sticky-mouthed and aching from dozing off with his neck at a weird angle. His eyes feel gritty, his head pounds. He’s slumped over an airport bathroom sink, splashing his face with water and trying not to puke when he feels a warm pressure on the small of his back.</p><p>“The <i>fuck</i>?” He whirls round, glasses clattering to the floor. </p><p>Eddie’s behind him, blurry, his eyes two large dark pools, and he’s looking down at where his hand is touching Richie’s hip. </p><p>“You can feel that, right?”</p><p>He can. Fuck. Eddie’s hand. <i>Touching</i> him. He almost makes a ridiculously embarrassing noise, defenceless from lack of sleep. Richie stumbles forward into him, his hand going straight through Eddie’s shoulder. Fuck.</p><p>“<i>Shit</i>,” says Eddie feelingly. “Okay, get your… your fucking glasses, here, Richie. Don’t step on them, idiot.”</p><p>“It’s because we’re close, isn’t it?”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah I think so. C’mon, fucknuts, lets go! Did you rent a car? Wait, are you gonna spew?”</p><p>“Who the fuck do you think you’re speaking to here, man? Do I look like a functional human being to you?”</p><p>He doesn’t spew. He somehow stumbles his way through the car rental process without tipping off the gum-popping teenager behind the counter to the margaritas or the imminent mental breakdown, and then they’re on the road, a sort of manic elation crackling between them. </p><p>“Slow the fuck down, Rich!” says Eddie gleefully, “Seriously, do I have to tell you how risky this is?” </p><p><i>Dangerous</i>, Eddie Spaghetti. Richie bets Eddie likes little fast cars, sexy, shiny, smelling of leather and gasoline. He speeds up a little more. </p><p>The seatbelt wouldn’t fasten properly across Eddie’s half-uncorporeal body, so he’s unbuckled as they fly down the freeway at ninety miles per hour. He leans forward, looking nothing less than wildly delighted and puts a hand out to grab Richie’s shoulder. They’re maybe ten, fifteen minutes from Derry, and Eddie’s hand is solid and warm and <i>real</i>, and Richie’s pulling over into a rest stop before he can think it through. </p><p>“What are you--” says Eddie, as Richie puts the car into park under the shade of a large tree heavy with leaves, a couple of hulking eighteen-wheelers their only company. Richie unbuckles his seatbelt, leans across the parking brake and hauls him into a kiss. </p><p>It would be a horrible, sad cliche to say it’s everything Richie’s ever dreamed about. It would also be true. He’s imagined what Eddie would taste like (cool, clean, ozone), what his mouth would feel like (soft, scrape of stubble around his chin, little odd shocks like static that make his lips buzz), what he would do (moan, clutch at the back of Richie’s head, scrabble to get closer). </p><p>Richie ends up half-crouched in Eddie’s lap, legs at awkward angles and his head pushed up against the roof of the car. His tongue slides into Eddie’s mouth again, again, again. Soft against his lower lip, against Eddie’s tongue, sweet and wet. Eddie plays with him, teasing, so deliberately sensual against the little <i>zing, zing</i> bursts of energy that spill out from him. He’s a good kisser, takes Richie’s mouth slow and deep until Richie is lightheaded from lack of oxygen. </p><p>“That’s what I wanted,” says Eddie roughly, pulling back to breathe. His mouth is wet. He kisses Richie again, quickly as if he can’t help himself. His eyes are very dark.</p><p>“I want--” says Richie, “Eds, do you--” </p><p>It’s mortifying. He can’t think with Eddie’s hands so fucking hot on his hips, fingers digging in. He smells like a lightning storm, charged air.</p><p>“Wanna fuck you better than <i>Pete</i>,” Eddie spits, pulling Richie’s hips sharply down and grinding up into his ass. “You’d fucking-- take my dick so good, Rich.”</p><p>“Shit,” Richie moans. “Yeah.” And then he can’t say anything else because Eddie is on him again, one hand sliding up his back into his hair, the other on his face, hinging his jaw open to kiss him deeper.</p><p>“You looked so fucking good,” Eddie says, dragging his mouth along Richie’s jaw to his ear as Richie squirms awkwardly against his stomach. “I loved watching you.”</p><p>“Jesus, who are you,” gasps Richie, “just fucking… stop talking, or I’m gonna come in my fucking pants.”</p><p>“Shit,” says Eddie, “me too, what the fuck.” He stops, his head dropping back against the headrest. Richie’s leg is starting to cramp. He tries to stretch it out, ends up collapsing onto Eddie’s chest. Eddie gives a little huff of breath that turns into a giggle. </p><p>“Fuck off,” says Richie. “You’re fulfilling like, most of my teenaged fantasies right now, give an old man a break.”</p><p>“Wanna go to the back seat and make out?”</p><p>“Obviously. Can I touch you?”</p><p>“Please, <i>please</i> touch me. Jesus, I don’t think I ever knew what the phrase ‘blue balls’ meant until I fucking died, Rich. Did you seriously have to suck that much dick?”</p><p>“It was like three times!”</p><p>“You’ve got a nice mouth,” says Eddie, and that stops the giggling in its tracks as Eddie gets distracted rubbing his thumb over Richie’s lower lip. He stops to scramble into the backseat, and Richie follows. Sweet, sweet legroom. And dick! It’s all coming up Tozier. </p><p>This time he gets Eddie’s thighs spread over his lap and motherfucker, isn’t that a sight. </p><p>“Can I get your dick out?”</p><p>“Ah, romance.”</p><p>“Oh, Eddie, my sweet!” He says tremulously, in his best Zsa Zsa Gabor, “Can I get your dick out, my <i>dah</i>-link? Ow, ow! How are your thighs so strong?”</p><p>He’s touching Eddie, being touched by Eddie, being gripped by Eddie’s thighs as Eddie’s hands rake through the hair on the back of his head. Richie can’t stop kissing him, the slide of his tongue undoing him with its intimacy. It feels final. Derry’s their destination; the end of something. He feels like he needs to consume Eddie whole, frantic with the need to have him before… before something he doesn’t want to think about. </p><p>In the end, it’s Eddie who gets their pants open; Richie too distracted by his mouth, hands stuck roaming Eddie’s back, warm and solid muscle flexing under his fingers. Eddie clasps them both in one hand and braces himself on Richie’s shoulder with the other. It’s awkward; even in the slightly more spacious backseat of the car they’re still cramped up with hardly enough room for Eddie to move on top of him. Richie wants him closer. Wants them to be so close to each other that they can hardly move, wants every part of them to be touching. He pulls Eddie in by his ass, and he knows he’s making things more difficult but he can’t bring himself to let go.</p><p>Surprisingly, Eddie doesn’t bitch about it. “Rich,” is all he says, breathed out against Richie’s mouth, his eyes large and liquid. His hips flex, sliding them together in the slack grip of his hand, and he never stops looking, eyes wide, expression so open. They can’t move much, but each short, trembling thrust makes Richie pant, the slide growing slippery as they leak on each other, until he’s chasing the need to come with every harsh breath. </p><p>Eddie digs his free hand into Richie’s shoulder, shoves in a little closer and adjusts his grip. “I’m so close,” he says, “fuck, Richie--”</p><p>“Yeah,” groans Richie, pulling him down harder, closer, Eddie over him and all around him, the smell of them sharp and sweaty and real. Eddie comes on him with a low gasp, going stiff in Richie’s arms. Richie feels it, feels the hot, thick pulse of it over his dick and he shudders, his body on fire, lit up all over and horribly, horribly in love.</p><p>They clean up half-assedly, distracted by kissing. Richie fucking <i>loves</i> kissing, has never kissed anyone like this, until his mouth is starting to feel numb and he still wants to drink Eddie in. Kiss him fucking forever.</p><p>“We have to keep going,” Eddie says, tipping his head to one side to let Richie nose up his jaw. “Get back on the road.”</p><p>“No. Why? We can move here. Live here forever. I wanna live right here,” he wriggles down, wedging himself in the footwell and pressing his face into Eddie’s abs (abs! He has abs! What the fuck!), “forever, please.”</p><p>“You know we can’t. I think you can hear it too, can’t you?”</p><p>And yeah, Eddie’s right; now that they’re here, Richie hears it, feels it, just like he can feel the power pulsing in the air between them. A fucking siren song, a little tug somewhere deep in his guts:</p><p>
  <i>COME, COME, COME</i>
</p><p>“Well, that’s not creepy as fuck.”</p><p>It’s not, though, is the thing. He’s known, somehow, from the very beginning, from when he started to catch glimpses of that half-formed shadowy person and didn’t freak the fuck out immediately. </p><p>They clamber back into the front of the car. Eddie still doesn’t buckle up. He leans over to give Richie a slow kiss, then draws back to study his face.</p><p>“Come on,” he says. “It’s time. Let’s go.”</p><p>They go. </p><p>-</p><p>The sun comes out as they drive over the bridge into town, the surface of the water twinkling gently, unthreatening. Richie doesn’t need to ask Eddie where they’re going; now they’re here, in Derry, it seems so obvious. They need to go to the house on Neibolt Street.</p><p>What’s left of it, anyway. Richie parks across the street, and they sit in the car as the engine hisses and pops quietly, cooling. </p><p>“This is it, isn’t it?” says Eddie quietly. “Fuck, dude.”</p><p>“We could turn around,” says Richie, knowing they can’t. </p><p>“I’m scared, Rich.”</p><p>“Yeah, Eds. Me too.”</p><p>“My body’s down there. Rotting in that shithole.” Eddie turns to him, his face so fucking earnest. </p><p>“Ehh, it’s only been a few months, you’re probably in one piece. Still would.”</p><p>“<i>Gross</i>, man.”</p><p>“C’mon then, Spagheds. Moment of truth.”</p><p>The old wire fence surrounding the plot is flattened, rusting through and starting to be consumed by green, growing things. There are ugly little yellow flowers sprouting in patches over the scrubby ground.</p><p>“Eds, wait,” says Richie, as Eddie starts to step forward. Then he’s lost for words, or, no, he has too many words that all want to come out at once, but they can’t seem to make it past the tightness in his throat. “You know I… I,”</p><p>“...fucked my mom? Yeah, man. I fucked your mom, too.” Then he pulls Richie down by the ears and kisses him. When he pulls back, Richie blinks, adjusts his glasses. There’s something all around Eddie’s body, like an inverted heat haze; it makes him hard to look at directly. Richie scrubs at his glasses with his t-shirt, but it doesn’t help. </p><p>“You’re just smudging them more, shithead.” </p><p>Richie kisses him again. Tries to drink in everything he can; Eddie’s taste, his smell. He’d never smelled like this, though, had he? Sharp, like a snuffed candle.</p><p>“Richie. I have to go.”</p><p>“You don’t. You fucking… you can’t, Eddie. You just came back, man, how can you fucking <i>leave</i> again? Don’t leave me, man.” Pathetic. Pathetic, Rich, you’re a fucking pussy, pleading with a dead man.</p><p>“Rich.” Eddie leans up, presses his forehead to Richie’s. “I’m dead. I can’t stay, because I’m dead.”</p><p>“Shit,” Richie scrubs at his eyes uselessly with the sleeve of his hoodie. “You really had to come back here and fuck me up like this.”</p><p>“I know. I’m sorry. I wish things had been different.”</p><p>The heat haze shimmers all around them, seeping into the outline of Eddie’s body until the whole of him is hazy again, a nebulous thing. When Richie tries to step in, to draw him closer, his hand swipes through nothing. The next moment, he’s gone.</p><p>“Fuck!”</p><p>He sits heavily on the dry ground. The tears on his cheeks feel like crawling insects, he rubs at his face again. And what, he’s here to deliver Eddie’s eternal fucking soul back to his body or some shit? </p><p>NO, YOU’RE HERE TO MAKE A CHOICE.</p><p>Richie whips around, fumbling his glasses back on and blinking to try to clear his eyes. </p><p>“Who the fuck’s there?”</p><p>I AM MATURIN.</p><p>“Maturin. The fucking… the turtle? Bill’s turtle?” The voice isn’t really a voice. It’s not coming from anywhere. It’s more like thoughts that appear in his head, that he knows aren’t his. He stands on shaky legs and looks around, but he can’t see anything. Just the dry, brownish ground, weeds growing high into the void where the house had fallen.</p><p>I AM NOT BILL’S TURTLE. BILL IS MY BILL.</p><p>“It,” Richie says, “It said you were dead. It said you couldn’t help us.”</p><p>MY BROTHER WAS CRUEL IN MANY WAYS. A VICIOUS THING, NOT MEANT FOR THIS WORLD.</p><p>“Fuck. Why am I here? Bill said you were a God. Can you bring them back? Eddie. Stan? Is that why you called me?”</p><p>THAT IS NOT IN MY POWER.</p><p>“Why the <i>fuck</i> didn’t you help us? What the fuck… why are you here? Just, what the hell, man?”</p><p>I WAS SLEEPING. I AM VERY TIRED, RICHIE. </p><p>It, <i>Maturin</i>, sounds regretful. Gentle. As if it had gone for a nap and allowed a pet dog to smash something valuable. </p><p>I HAVE SOMETHING I CAN OFFER TO YOU. AN APOLOGY. THAT IS THE CHOICE YOU MUST MAKE.</p><p>“Cool. Shit, okay, Leonardo. Lay it on me.”</p><p>I OFFER YOU A NEW BEGINNING. MY BROTHER IS IN THE VOID; SO TOO, THIS TIMELINE MAY CEASE TO EXIST.</p><p>“You’d fucking <i>erase</i> us? How in the… how the fuck does that help me?”</p><p>THINK OF IT NOT AS AN ERASURE, BUT A REVERSAL. </p><p>“A… rewind? With no clown? To when?”</p><p>OH, THE BEGINNING OF TIME.</p><p>Richie sits again, because his legs won’t hold him any more. He feels like he might be about to tear apart at the seams, his body an ill-fitting container for everything that’s swirling around inside him. He wants to say yes. Yes, do it! Set back the clock, erase everything that’s ever been! See ya, suckers! There’s nothing worthwhile left on this shithole planet anyway.</p><p>But he thinks about that fucking shitty Ashton Kutcher film, <i>The Butterfly Effect</i>, ripples in time. Ripples in time over fucking <i>billions</i> of years. His stomach cramps up. He thinks about Ben and Bev: how happy she looked in Ben’s big creepy murder-house, beautiful and radiant. Mike’s squinting smiling face in his shitty selfies from Craphole, Florida. He can’t mess with that. He can’t.</p><p>
  <i>Didn’t you say you didn’t go to school for fucking Philosophy, dipshit? You think Ashton Kutcher knows more about the fabric of the universe than a goddam God Turtle? Get on with it already!</i>
</p><p>The ring of purple bruises around Bev’s wrists in <i>Jade of the Orient</i>. Mike’s tired, scared face in his strange little room above the Library. The ragged H carved into Ben’s stomach, the stink of blood rising. He’d showed them the scar when Eddie had asked, pale and raised and still stark against his tanned stomach. Blood trickling down Mike’s dusty face. Bev’s dress, ripped at the hem, her mouth a tight line. Red marks on her arms, the tender places on her face half hidden with makeup. Eddie, Stan, Georgie; the permanent hollows under Bill’s eyes. Adrian Mellon. All the little half-grown bones under Derry. </p><p>“Yes,” he chokes out. “Yeah. Fuck. Do it.”</p><p>AS YOU WISH.</p><p>“You’re not even gonna have a check box on this? Are you fucking sure you want to erase the entirety of human history and everything in it? Do I get an autosave here?”</p><p>YOU HAVE DECIDED.</p><p>And yeah. Yeah, he has. </p><p>-</p><p>In the summer of 1988, Georgie Denbrough goes out in a rainstorm and catches a cold. He passes it to Bill, who gives it to Richie, Stan and Eddie. Eddie gets kept home from school for a week by his mom, and Richie sneaks comics to him by climbing up the tree next to his window.</p><p>In 1989, Beverly Marsh has bruises on her thighs and bloody knuckles. Henry Bowers poisons Mr. Chips and drinks his first beer. Ben gets hit by a rock the size of a golf ball, and Mike Hanlon is bleeding and smiling in the gravel pit.</p><p>Richie kisses Connor Bowers behind the bleachers then spews on his shoes and runs and runs until his legs give out under him. He dunks Stan in the quarry. Henry Bowers breaks Eddie’s arm. Georgie grows up, up, up.</p><p>At Homecoming, Eddie slow-dances with Marsha Robson, and Richie sneaks out with Stan to smoke cigars on the football field. Afterwards, Eddie finds him alone in the clubhouse, his suit crumpled and grass-stained. </p><p>Eddie kisses him.</p>
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